


Stress

by orphan_account



Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drug Use, Face-Fucking, Gender-neutral Reader, Masturbation, Other, References to Depression, Sexual Frustration, Smoking, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 05:22:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20420597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Life isn't going great for you right now. Your job sucks, you have art block, and to top it all off,some assholestole your favorite shirt.And he may want more from you than that.





	Stress

**Author's Note:**

> based on a request from tumblr :)

You first realized that something was strange when your favorite shirt went missing. 

The old woman you were renting a room from didn’t have a dryer, preferring to hang her clothes out to dry instead. You were going down the line that your clothes usually ended up on, laundry basket balanced against you hip, when you noticed that one of the clips was empty. A tremor of anxiety went through you. You went down the line, inspecting the clothes you hadn’t taken down yet, then hastily clawed through the ones already in the basket. 

Yep. That empty peg was the one that had held your favorite shirt. You scoured the yard, thinking that maybe it had blown off in the wind, but you couldn’t find it. Your landlady hadn’t seen it either.

It hadn’t been an expensive shirt. To tell the truth, it was coming apart at the seams because you wore it constantly, and anyone with common sense would have thrown it out long ago. You couldn’t understand why someone would want to steal it.

_Whatever,_ you thought. _People are assholes._

Shoving down your annoyance as best you could, you headed out for work.

*

During the day, you delivered pizzas. At night, you made art. That was your real job, the one you actually cared about, and one day—one day _ soon_, you swore—it would be your only one.

The problem was that more often than not, your day job stressed you out too much to concentrate on your real one, and your art languished as a result.

You returned from work sweaty and irritable that night. Only a few people had tipped, it was too damn hot outside, and your boss had chewed you out for getting lost on a delivery and taking too long.

You took a quick shower to get rid of the sweat. Then, dressed comfortably in a tank and sweats, you cooked a packet of ramen, poured it out in a bowl, and sat down at your desk to work.

You did traditional art, mostly. In the past you had only done pencil and ink with the occasional foray into charcoal. Lately, though, you had taken a shine to the idea of painting—and only the idea, so far. On your desk sat a few canvases with base sketches, but you had yet to dab color onto any of them. Tubes of acrylic paint sat in the top drawer of your desk, unopened, waiting for you to pluck up the courage to use them.

You picked through the canvasses as you slurped up ramen. The idea of putting color on any of them made your stomach churn. Your first attempt was going to be bad. Over and over you had told yourself that you had to accept this and _ just do the damn thing already _ or you would never improve.

Thinking it was one thing. Getting your hands to pick up the brush was another.

You finished you ramen and set the bowl aside. Opened the drawer with the acrylics. Closed it. Stared out the window in front of your desk, up at the moon, begging it for answers. Angry tears gathered at the corners of your eyes.

Without thinking, you picked up a blank canvas, your last unblemished one, and grabbed a pencil. You dragged the tip around and around in a circle, making something that looked like a black hole, or an evil eye. The canvas gave out and tore. You did it again. And again. Soon, the entire canvas was ruined.

You stood up and stared at the wreckage, jaw clenched, chest heaving.

“Fuck this.”

You threw open the window and chucked the canvas into the yard. It spun off into the dark, where you didn’t have to look at it. Thank God.

You collapsed onto your bed and fumbled around in the space between your mattress and the wall, where you kept your emergency weed rations. Once you had a joint lit, you crossed to the window and leaned out of it. Behind the back fence was a stretch of woods, so it wasn’t like there was anyone close enough to see you and snitch.

Wind blew through the trees, stirring the leaves and cutting through the humidity a little. You thought you felt a nip of tardy autumn chill as a gust blew by you. About time. One week until Halloween and it still felt like summer. 

You blew a puff of smoke out into the night and watched it rise and fade into the shadows. A few more puffs and you felt the tension ease from you. You drifted back to your bed and laid down with a relieved sigh, legs hanging loose and languid from the end. You took another puff and set the joint to the side. Your hands ghosted over your torso, under the waistband of your sweatpants, down to your thighs. They always felt remarkably soft and sensitive when you were high. For a minute you simply brushed the pads of your fingers up and down the insides of them, savoring the smooth texture. Finally, when you were good and worked up, you kicked your sweatpants off and got down to business.

The wind had brought storm clouds with it. Outside it began to rain, soft and steady. You kept rhythm the gentle tapping on the roof. You approached the edge. A surge of wind blew rain inside, misting your face. You thought of your canvases, still scattered under the window. A surge of panic cut through your high. The edge receded. 

_ No no no, _ you thought. _ Just let me have this. Please. _

You changed positions. You tried to do it faster, then slower. You tried every trick you knew.

The edge didn’t come back.

Lightning struck somewhere nearby, shaking the house.

You sprang out of bed and slammed the window shut. Your canvases looked fine, but you dabbed at them with a paper towel just in case.

The rain began coming down in earnest. You watched it for a bit and finished the joint.

Nothing else to do. At least you could rely on sleep, if nothing else.

You sprayed some air freshener in case the landlady came poking around, thanked God for inventing cannabis, and passed out.

*

When you checked outside the next morning, the canvas you had thrown away was gone.

You remembered your missing shirt. A drop of sweat ran down your back that had nothing to do with the heat.

You tried to tell yourself that it was just a coincidence.

*

That night you came home just as exhausted as the last. You decided to shove the art in your desk and call it quits for now. It obviously wasn’t going to happen this week. You could call this break an early Halloween treat, or something. That was a good enough excuse, right? Right.

You went straight for your weed stash, opened the window, and laid back to smoke. Inevitably, your hands started to wander again. 

Last time you had tried to hard. Maybe if you just sort of tried to...catch your body off guard…

Nothing. Hardly even a glimmer of arousal. Your body wasn’t fooled in the slightest.

With a long sigh you sat up to look for food. The weed and exhaustion had made you ravenous. As you crossed your room to the mini fridge in the corner, you glanced out the window. You froze.

Your favorite shirt hung on the clothesline right where you left it, as if it had never moved.

It hadn’t been there when you got back an hour ago, you were sure. Which meant that the thief had put it back sometime between then and now. Which meant they had passed through the yard while you were masturbating in full view of the window. An open window, which they could have crawled through at any moment if they had wanted to.

You closed the window and locked it. You scanned the outdoors. The only movement you could see was your brightly colored shirt, flapping in the wind like a flag.

You closed the blinds and made dinner with shaking hands. You sat cross-legged on your beg as you ate, not trusting the desk because it was too close, because some irrational part of you expected fingers to suddenly part the blinds despite the pane of glass that separated you from whoever lurked out there.

*

A night of uneasy sleep left you feeling like you had been dragged over a bed of rubble. Your back made a gross popping noise when you stood and stretched.

The shirt was gone again.

“Son of a _ bitch_.”

You stumbled outside. The light of day had whisked away your fear, leaving only sleep-deprived fury. You balled your hands into fists and glared around the yard.

“Someone,” you said to the empty air, “is fucking with me, and I don’t appreciate it.”

Your tormentor, if they were lurking nearby, stayed silent—which was good, because in your current state you probably would have thrown a fit and started pummeling them.

“This isn’t over,” you announced, and stomped back inside.

*

You nearly hit another car during work because you were so tired, so you were in a _ fine _mood when you got home that evening. 

The shirt was already on the line. You shoved your window open and poked your head out.

“Okay, asshole. I know you’re out there. Show yourself.”

Your stalker stepped out from behind a tree near the back fence. You assumed from his stature that he was probably a man. He wore a white mask. There was an eerie stillness about him that immediately put you on edge.

After stepping into the open he simply stared at you, and didn’t seem inclined to come any closer just yet. That, at least, was a relief.

“Look. I want my shirt back, you want to watch me jack off.” You tugged down the sipper of your pants. “Now, here’s how this is gonna go. You leave the shirt and I don’t call the cops on you. Deal?”

He tilted his head the right, ever so slightly. You took that as a yes.

You shoved your desk back from the window and sat down on it, facing him, letting your legs dangle. With one hand you stroked yourself through your underwear. You kept the other poised on the edge of the desk, ready to slam the window shut if he tried anything.

Although your eyes were focused on him, your mind wandered. You thought of good orgasms you’d had in the past. Frustration cut through your belly like a hot knife. You wished you had a lover, a good sex toy, anything but just your own two hands.

Your mind settled on a particularly good one night stand you had a year ago…God, the things that man had done with his tongue. You turned hot all over at the memory. Not about-to-come hot, but good, the ghost of the feeling tingling through you. Despite all the time that had passed, your body still remembered the motions, remembered the way you squirmed and moaned and clawed at the sheets.

Pretending would feel nearly as good, you realized. There wasn’t any harm it that, was there?

You forced your breaths to come short and quick. You rocked your hips and bucked up into your fingers. Finally, you leaned back on your free hand and, back arched, chin straining toward the ceiling, let out a pleased gasp. 

Your cheeks flushed, your pulse hammered in your throat—but your body still refused to give you what you wanted.

The man outside, however seemed to have bought your performance. As you pretended to come down he palmed himself through his coveralls, rubbing with slow, contemplative motions. He came with neither a sound nor any other sign of outward pleasure; you could only tell that he did because wetness bloomed across his crotch and the bulge in his pants faded.

For some reason this made you angrier than his thievery. You were hoping for—what? Something interesting to put in your mental spank bank? Some new fantasy that might finally break you out of the rut your sex life was in?

But he would give you nothing. Like you were just an actor on a screen, a thing to extract pleasure from and then forget.

He stepped back into the shadows at the edge of the yard, and you didn’t see him again for the rest of the night.

*

He kept his end of the bargain, at least, and you woke to find your shirt still there. You had half expected to find it covered in cum stains, but it wasn't.

A part of you almost wished that it was.

*

This night he was closer, standing at the midway point between the fence and the house among the empty clotheslines.

You considered faking another orgasm for him, watching him touch himself through his pants like you were a performer in an old-timey peepshow and he was a gentleman looking for a quick wank.

No. Fuck that.

You undressed to your underwear, just to make sure you had his attention. You did it nice and slow, to make him think you were going to give him something good.

You sauntered toward the window. You hooked a finger under the edge of your underwear, like you were about to tug them off. His watched you with rapt attention. He took a step forward to get a better look, and—

Before he could do anything else, you flicked him off and pulled the blinds closed.

*

A man like that wasn’t going to stand for this, obviously. You expected him to burst into your room any minute and hack you into tiny pieces. That had probably been his endgame from the start, anyway, regardless of what you did.

To tell the truth, you didn’t care. It wasn’t like your life wasn’t going anywhere, was it? Better to end life chopped up by a serial killer than die of starvation because no one wanted to buy your art. That would be a more interesting story, at least.

But...he didn’t do anything. You sat up half the night, tensing at every small sound. None of them were him.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook you and you fell asleep. When you woke the next morning, you realized why he had spared you.

He had stolen every fucking piece of clothing in your room.

Drawers stood open. Your laundry basket was toppled. Your favorite shirt now hung in shreds from the end of your bed.

To top it all off, he had pulled your alarm clock’s plug from the wall, and now you were late for work. 

You rushed around your room, desperate to see if he had left you anything to wear today. The only place he hadn’t checked thoroughly was the bathroom. Your dirty uniform was where you had tossed it last night, wadded up in a corner of your shower stall.

You pulled the nasty thing on and ran outside.

*

“Long night?” one of your coworkers asked, smirking, when you rushed in through the back door, tugging at your shirt to straighten the wrinkles.

“You have no idea,” you muttered.

*

He was only a few feet from your window this time. You sighed and opened it.

“If I suck your dick, will you give me my clothes back?”

He came forward. You got on your knees and put you hands on his hips, gently pulling him toward you until his torso was flush with the window frame. He gripped your hair as you unzipped him and took his cock out out of his underwear. At the first touch of your tongue against the underside of his dick he thrust impatiently into your mouth. You gagged. The hand in your hair tightened. Your scalp stung. He shoved it in again.

You settled into a sort of rhythm: you pulled back, lips dragging against his shaft, he pushed forward before you could release him, repeat. When he came it sprayed against the back of your throat and you choked, but he didn’t let you pull away until he had emptied himself in you. You spit his semen up onto your carpet and braced your hands against the windowsill, coughing raggedly.

He had already tucked himself back into his underwear and zipped up his coveralls. He watched silently as you struggled to catch your breath. Up close you could see that his eyes were dark, blank, conveying nothing, but you got the feeling that somewhere behind them he was laughing.

“Fuck you too, buddy,” you said, and shut the window.

*

In the morning you found your clothes scattered all over your room, some on the floor, some shoved haphazardly into drawers, some dumped directly onto your sleeping body. You picked through them and threw some in the hamper and some back where they had been, more or less at random.

Afterwards, you sat on the bed, staring out the window. He had gotten into your room twice now. How could you ever feel safe in this place again? You suspected that moving wouldn’t make a difference. He would pass under your door like smoke wherever you went.

All you could do was wait and see that he did next.

*

He didn’t show up that night. Or the next.

You should have felt relief. Instead, you felt angry and embarrassed.

He had gotten what he wanted from you, and now he wasn’t coming back. You didn’t want him to come back, right? No, of course not. That would be stupid.

You walked along the perimeter of the yard, smoking, peering into every shadow as if he could have shrunk himself down and melted into them. You kicked the tree he had hidden behind the first night you called for him.

Whatever. Good riddance.

Back in your room, you took one of the rumpled shirts he had stolen and draped it over yourself. It smelled of rot and mold. Where was he hiding, that smelled like that?

You dreamed of a dark shape stalking you down an empty street, of adrenaline pumping through your veins, of feeling like you were truly alive for the first time in years.

It was a relief, for the threat to come from someone other than yourself for once.

Eventually, he caught up to you and drove a knife into your stomach. As the life drained from your body he held you to his chest in a strange embrace.

The tenderness of it made you quake.

You woke panting with need.

*

In a rare moment of compassion, your boss let you take Halloween evening off. Normally he wanted all hands on deck during holidays, but something in your eyes must have told him that you would be completely useless this time. He took you aside, awkwardly patted your shoulder, and told you to go buy yourself some candy.

You did. You bought a big bag of discount Snickers and stuffed your face with them while you waited for a friend to pick you up for a Halloween party. When they called to say they were stuck in traffic, you sighed, wiped chocolate stains from your mouth, and went outside to have a smoke.

You only got one drag in before you were tackled to the ground.

For a minute you lay there, stunned, ears ringing. Gradually, everything came back into focus.

Children high on sugar shrieked in the distance. Your landlady, sitting on the porch with her bowl of candy, chatted with a neighbor. Grass tickled your skin.

And above you loomed the masked man, pinning you to the ground.

You smiled.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

He tore your shirt off and mashed his masked lips against your own, and you hooked your legs around his back, pulling him close, close enough that the scent of your sweat and desperation mingled with his own and you were finally—_finally—_able to get out of your head.

**Author's Note:**

> and then the reader stayed up all night drawing pictures of his dick and got their artistic AND their sexual mojo back. also michael went off and killed some people i guess. anyway, good for you, reader


End file.
